Chapter 133 She-Wolf's Howl
Briar's POV
I stood at the head of the conference room, arms crossed, watching their faces as they scrolled through the latest hit pieces on their phones. The photos were everywhere now, spreading like wildfire across every platform.
"We need to respond," Owen said, setting his phone down. "I'm thinking we do a damage control interview. Maybe something like 'Flight from the Gilded Cage'? Show you breaking free from toxic relationships, taking control of your narrative."
Eric's head snapped up. "No."
Everyone turned to look at him.
"A woman's fight for dignity shouldn't be framed with passive language like 'escape' or 'flight,'" he continued, his tone sharp. "That makes her the object being acted upon, not the subject taking action. We're not telling a story about running away. We're telling a story about standing ground."
I felt something click into place in my chest. Eric was right. This wasn't about me fleeing from anything. This whole attack, these photos, the headlines reducing me to someone's plaything—it was the same tired narrative men had been using to diminish women for centuries. The male gaze treating us like objects to be possessed, displayed, judged.
"It's not about me," I said slowly, the strategy crystallizing as I spoke. "It's about every woman who's been photographed without consent, every woman who's been reduced to her relationships with men, every woman who's been told her success must be because of who she's sleeping with. We make this bigger than just my story."
Owen was already nodding, pulling out his tablet. "A series. Multiple interviews. Different women, different stories, but the same core message."
"Exactly." I turned to the marketing team. "Stop all our planned livestreams. I want you monitoring Montgomery's channels instead. Every comment, every viewer count, every piece of engagement data. If they're going to attack us, I want to know exactly how they're doing it."
The PR director leaned forward. "You want us to produce the interview content?"
"Yes. Keep it clean, professional, but raw. No heavy editing. I want people to see real emotion, real anger, real strength." I glanced around the table. "Because here's what I've learned—when you're drowning, the people who throw you a rope are the minority. Most people just watch. Some even throw stones. We're going to show women they don't have to accept that anymore."
---
By seven PM, we were ready. The video was only ten minutes long, but we'd packed everything into it that mattered. I sat in a simple chair against a plain background, dressed in business casual, looking directly into the camera like I was talking to a friend.
The title card read: [She-Wolf's Howl: I Refuse to Be Defined]
I didn't use my CEO title. I didn't mention Vance Botanicals. I spoke as just another woman who'd been through hell and decided to stop apologizing for surviving it.
I kept the details about Julian vague, just enough to give context without turning it into a spectacle. But the mountain race incident—that I described in full. The rain, the humiliation, being physically dragged in front of a crowd while people watched and did nothing. I didn't cry. I didn't perform vulnerability. I just stated the facts and let them speak for themselves.
"My life, my rules," I said directly to the camera. "I'm not anyone's prize to be won or trophy to be displayed. I'm not defined by who wants me or who I've been with. I'm defined by my choices, my work, my integrity. And I'm asking every woman watching this to remember the same thing about herself. Respect yourself. Be financially independent. Be intellectually independent. Be emotionally independent. Not because you don't need anyone, but because you deserve to choose who you let into your life, not be chosen by them."
Owen posted it to our official social media at exactly seven PM.
For the first twenty minutes, engagement was moderate. Comments trickled in, mostly supportive but cautious. Then something shifted. The algorithm caught it, or maybe just enough women shared it that it hit critical mass. Either way, the floodgates opened.
The comment counter started climbing so fast I could barely track individual messages. Hundreds per minute, then thousands. Women of all ages sharing their own stories, their own anger, their own determination. The support wasn't just emotional—it was fierce, protective, almost tribal.
I'm sobbing at my desk right now. Thank you for saying what we've all felt.
Today I filed for divorce. Been thinking about it for months but this pushed me over the edge. Life's too short.
Anyone trying to tear this woman down is going to have to go through all of us first.
Within an hour, the video had generated its own hashtag and climbed to the number one trending topic. But the women who'd connected with the message weren't satisfied with just commenting. They mobilized.
I watched in real-time as coordinated groups descended on the news sites that had published the hit pieces. The comment sections became battlegrounds, with women systematically dismantling every misogynistic take and demanding the articles be removed. Three major outlets caved within two hours, pulling their content entirely. The photos started disappearing from search results as platforms responded to the mass reporting.
Then they turned their attention to Montgomery Medical Group's livestream channels. The viewer counts plummeted as coordinated waves of women flooded the chat with criticism, drowning out whatever sanitized corporate message Montgomery had been trying to push.
By ten PM, we'd converted the tenth-floor conference room into a war room. The massive screen was split into four sections—comment monitoring, sales data, discussion forums, and incoming media requests. Every department head was there, eyes glued to their respective sections, calling out significant developments.
We were winning. The momentum had shifted so dramatically that even I was startled by it.
---
I didn't leave the office until after one AM. The apartment was dark when I let myself in, and I was surprised to find Rowan curled up on my couch, her phone still clutched in her hand.
She jerked awake when I closed the door. "Jesus, finally. I was worried sick."
"You saw the video?"
"Saw it? Briar, I must have watched it five times. I was terrified before you posted it, but after..." She rubbed her eyes. "Those girls in the comments are so incredibly kind. I almost started crying reading them."
I sank down beside her, suddenly aware of how exhausted I was. "I was scared too. Right up until I hit publish."
Nyx appeared from somewhere in the darkness, jumping down from Rowan's lap to wind around my ankles. I reached down to scratch her ears, grateful for the simple, uncomplicated affection.
Rowan was staring at the cat. "Wait. Is that Lucian's cat?"
"She's mine now."
"You stole his cat when you broke up with him?"
"I didn't steal her. She came with me voluntarily."
Rowan laughed, the sound breaking some of the tension in the room. "You know that's literally the definition of stealing, right? The cat can't consent to being catnapped."
"She's happier with me anyway." I picked Nyx up, and she immediately started purring. "See? She's choosing me."
"If you say so, cat burglar." Rowan stood, stretching.